


In Fire and Blood

by torch song (atismere)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Pre-Relationship, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atismere/pseuds/torch%20song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Fire and Blood

Cathal frowned at the man across the fire. "I do not think it is wise that we go," he said for what he was sure was the hundredth time. Again, his reluctance seemed to reverberate off the other man. The man simply stared at him, the glow of the fire giving enough light for Cathal to make out his expression - a raised eyebrow, his lips pursed in a thin line. It was an expression of doubt and disappointment, an expression that he had grown used to seeing in the years of their friendship. Cathal groaned exasperatedly and leaned back onto his elbows. "Eoin."

The other man - Eoin - shrugged his shoulders. "If you have any reservations on this," he said for what was also the hundredth time. "You may still turn back. I will not judge you if you do." Cathal had grown decidedly tired of hearing it. He barely restrained another groan, his teeth grinding in his agitation.

"I truly hope this is the last time I need to say this. I am not leaving you," he ground out. Eoin shrugged his shoulders again, as if Cathal's determination and therefore, continued presence were still widely up for debate. Cathal gave him a dark look. There were not many times he wanted to strike his friend for his foolishness; it seemed, though, that one of those moments was upon them. "Eoin, if I had any reservations, I would not have come with you." Cathal told him curtly, then paused before he continued, his voice damnably soft. "Nor would I have let you leave." He swallowed and looked away from Eoin's gaze.

"Cathal..." 

Cathal shrugged his shoulders now and gave Eoin a crooked smile. Eoin was staring at him, his expression anxious and so horribly young that Cathal was struck with another moment such as this one. Nearly a lifetime ago, when they had been nothing but boys and Eoin's father had died. Eoin had sought him out on the eve of the funeral, his skin sharply pale against the black tunic and hose and his face streaked with tears. Cathal had let him into his chambers and sat with him through the night, not speaking but offering his presence as comfort. He had looked at Cathal then just as he was now, as if he could never have expected anyone to care for him enough to be with him, to look after him. The same shock and humbleness etched itself onto his face as it had on that night so many years ago.

Eoin swallowed audibly and nodded. "Thank you."

Once again, Cathal shrugged. He took a swig from his flask, the water cool and refreshing despite its proximity to the warm coals. He swallowed and placed it next to him again, straightening from his awkward position. "I know you would do the same for me," he replied. "This being said, I still do not think it is wise that we go."

It was Eoin's turn to groan. "Cathal," he said exasperatedly. "We must. If we are to find a way to end the blasted war, we must continue."

"And they will help us?" Cathal asked, his tone sharp and his voice too loud to his own ears. "I have heard tales of them; I have met men who have dealt with them. They will not help us, Eoin! We will gain nothing from them; we only stand to lose - more than we already have."

Eoin was quiet but the weight of his stare and the silence that hung between them spoke volumes. Cathal returned his hard stare, trying to squash his internal panic. They could not afford to lose any more; they did not speak of it, their personal losses, but he knew that the death of both Eoin's father and sister was a burden that Eoin would never shake. Cathal certainly knew of his own grief, so buried beneath his attention and fret of the present that it rarely saw the light of the day. But it was there nonetheless, resurfacing in the form of dreams that had him waking before dawn with tears on his face and his mother's pleas for help ringing in his ears.

Though what Eoin suggested was not only foolish and desperate, but entirely dangerous. The creatures - not quite women, they were too gnarled and twisted both inwardly and outwardly to be women - would not seek something as simple as coin for retribution. It would be blood or something valuable, something neither of them were willing to part with. Cathal had not wanted to think too long on what they would choose. There were few things those days that he was ready to part with and even less that he had brought with him.

He sighed and looked down at his lap, his fingers pulling at his hose. "I want the war over, too, Eoin," he reminded him. "But what they will ask from us, I am not sure I am ready to give up. Not when we can still fight. Our enemies, the ones we face on the battlefield, they are nothing but men. There is still a chance of victory against them. If we fight -"

"Then we will only lose more." Eoin interrupted him so sharply that Cathal raised his head to look at him. He gave Cathal a cold look that still, beyond it, was wrought with vulnerability. He was scared, reasonably so. He was more scared than Cathal by far. Cathal shifted awkwardly beneath Eoin's gaze. "Either we fight and all die, or we go to them and - and." Eoin stopped. Cathal could not be certain but he thought Eoin's face had gone red, though it was hard to tell in the darkness and the fire that already flushed their skin.

"And what?" he asked softly. Eoin shrugged his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. Cathal sighed, again. He felt old and tired but that was not uncommon; he had felt old and tired since the war had started fourteen winters ago. He could scarcely remember a time when he had not felt old and tired, when the responsibilities of an adult were on his shoulders. But he was getting very tired of feeling, well, tired. Cathal rubbed wearily at his face. "Get some sleep," he instructed Eoin. "We'll ride for them tomorrow."

Eoin nodded, still quiet, and rose to get his bed roll. Cathal watched him for a moment before he unrolled his bed roll and smoothed it over the uneven ground. He thought miserably of the down-filled mattresses at the keep and the warm hearths that were watched throughout the night. Such luxuries were hardly forgotten, and sorely missed, after days of sleeping on the cold ground.

"Cathal?" Eoin called quietly. Cathal looked at him. Eoin had laid his bed roll across from his, on the opposite side of the fire; he sat upon it, his legs crossed like a child. "Thank you for coming," he said. "There are not many who would have and, well. Thank you."

Cathal forced himself to smile at him. "You can repay me by not doing anything foolish tomorrow," he quipped. Eoin scowled playfully at him and when Cathal laughed at the expression, it was genuine. "Sleep well, you fool," he said amusedly, settling on his bed roll.

"You as well."

Cathal nodded in recognition and then rolled onto his side, facing away from Eoin. There, he could not see the frown that took the place of his smile. It would be difficult to sleep well, not with the conversation having drudged up many subjects that he had dutifully repressed.

Still. He closed his eyes and willed himself into sleep.

*

Cathal had not slept well.

Nightmares that were made more of memory than fiction had woken him several times during the night, his skin damp with sweat and his heart beating horribly fast. He had given up on sleep after the worst nightmare - the memory of his mother's death, the burning of the village. When he had woke from that, it had been with a shout, the smell of the fire setting his body ablaze with panic. It had taken a good while, and Eoin's calming, for Cathal to fully return to reality.

They had readied the horses in a tense quiet, neither of them speaking of the night before nor his nightmares nor their destination. Cathal balked at the idea of seeing the creatures but he would not leave Eoin to face them alone. His friend was prone to streaks of sacrificing that often ended in grief and anger rather than in an end to whatever horrid thing Eoin had been protesting. If he were to go to the creatures and they were to ask him for his life, Cathal had no doubt that Eoin would die happily in exchange for the end of the war.

Cathal had lost too many of his loved ones already. He would not lose his best friend.

So they had ridden in silence, their horses hoofs drumming against the undergrowth and startling flocks of birds from their nests. The rhythm of the gallop had been jarring in Cathal's half-awake state, his teeth rattling as he clung to his stallion's mane. But he had ridden without complaint and since then they had arrived outside the small hut, their horses trembling, coats damp with sweat and muzzles flecked with saliva. 

Cathal stared warily at the hut, his hands clenched around the reins so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Eoin," he began cautiously. He glanced at Eoin only to find that he had already dismounted and was approaching the hut. "Eoin." Cathal hissed, swinging himself out of the saddle. He spared his horse a glance - a well-trained charger, he doubted the horse would spook or run without a rider - before he hurried after Eoin. "Are you mad?" he asked when he came to Eoin's side.

Eoin did not answer. He was paler than usual, the only evidence of his fear; his jaw was set, his lips pulled in a thin line of determination. He leaned forward and rapped his knuckles against the weathered door. Cathal stared at Eoin as Eoin watched the door, his expression anxious but certain. Cathal swallowed and forced his own panic to settle, glancing at the door. It was too late for him to argue against seeing the creatures again, it was too late to turn back and ride far away though he could never leave without Eoin, would rather die there at his side than leave him. But still, his stomach churned with an anxiety that could not be ignored, his heart beating too quickly in his chest.

"Eoin," he said quietly, beseechingly, after a moment. He was going to say more but he was stopped when the door opened with a groan, revealing a woman. Or what would be a female. It was far too contorted and twisted to be a woman, its body hunched and skin sagging from its bones. He sucked in a breath, reaching to push Eoin back with one hand while his other reaching for his sabre. His hand closed around empty air and he looked down, startled. Cathal was certain that he had took his sword out of the saddle's sheath and into the sheath at his belt, but perhaps -

He looked up when he heard the soft snick of a sword being drawn and found himself at the end of his own blade. The creature held it aloft, its beady eyes staring him down. "Young Cathal of Astigan," the creature crooned, its voice at odds with its aged physique. "Son of Eideard, paladin of Endral and priest of the gods." Cathal blanched but the creature did not seem to care or notice. "And young Eoin of Ranifon, son of Padarn, prince of Raniforn." The creature looked at Eoin and tilted its head in what would have been a display of curiosity if it were more human. "We have what you seek."

"You do?" Eoin asked, not eagerly but with blatant relief. Cathal sent him a sharp look. Did it not bother him that the creature knew not only their names, but their fathers' and their titles? The look the creature had given Cathal had made his blood run cold, his heart stop in his chest. With the way the creature was staring at Eoin now...

He knew with a sudden horrible certainty that he had been right about the creatures, his reluctance well founded. Nothing good would come out of this. 

"Eoin." Cathal repeated, his voice high pitched to his own ears.

Eoin did not look at him, he in fact did not seem to have heard him. However, the creature returned to staring at Cathal with an all too knowing expression on its face. The point of the sword brushed against his Adam's apple. He gave Eoin a look, his panic and fear rising. 

"We do," the creature said, not looking away from Cathal. "What are you willing to give us in return?" The sword pressed pointedly against Cathal's throat, drawing a warmth that he was too familiar with. Cathal ignored the reflex to swallow and glanced wildly at Eoin again, hoping futilely that he would see reason - and the sword - and leave the place. He was not ready to give them what they were sure to seek, he could not but if it was his life in the place of Eoin's than perhaps -

"Anything." Eoin replied.

The creature's face twisted in what was the ghastliest smile Cathal had the misfortune of seeing. It dropped the sword from his throat, a droplet of blood traveling down the length of the sword to pool at the crossguard. "Do not look so worried, son of Eideard," the creature told him. "You will find that this is a gift."

Cathal frowned at it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Eoin was frowning, too, and glanced at Cathal. Eoin reached out for him, his brow furrowing. "What happened to -" Eoin began to ask was cut off by his shout of pain. The creature had, in Eoin's moment of distraction, struck; it had sunk Cathal's sword into Eoin's back. The blade protruded gruesomely from Eoin's chest and already, his tunic front was coloured red with blood. The creature twisted the blade. Eoin gasped. 

With a soft, wet sound, the creature drew the sword out of Eoin. Cathal stared at Eoin, his mouth gaping open and blood roaring in his ears, his pulse too loud and too quick. He could not look away, not when Eoin tottered to his knees, Eoin's expression of shock shifting to one of pain as his hands scrabbled at his chest. Eoin pulled his hand away, his fingers stained with blood. He looked up at Cathal, his face pinched and his eyes bright.

Cathal could not breathe, he could hardly think. He was barely aware of wrenching the dagger out of his boot's sheath and stabbing the creature, dragging his dagger its shoulder and across its stomach to its hip, splitting it open. He did not look as the thing gave a gurgle before landing beside Eoin with a wretched noise. Cathal crouched beside Eoin and wound his arm around him, taking care not to press against the bleeding wound. He hefted his friend to his feet, his sole intent to get away from the hut, leave the creatures behind. He had known it would happen, he knew one of their lives would be taken in exchange for what they sought, but he had not thought - he had thought he would have time, that he would be able to step between the creature and Eoin and sacrifice himself because Eoin had been and always was more important than him.

He had thought he would have time, more time than what he had been given.

Eoin made a choked, gurgled sound beneath his arm, sagging. Cathal cursed loudly, his fingers slick with blood and fumbling for a grasp on Eoin's tunic. He could not find purchase, though; when Eoin fell once more to his knees far from the hut, Cathal dropped with him, cradling him against his side. He was tired, he knew that in the same vague way that he knew their horses were gone. Adrenalin sped through him, bolstered with panic and fear that was set so deeply into him that he could not remember not feeling it.

"Cath-," Eoin began but stopped with a splutter, his hands once more going to the wound. Cathal batted his hands away and placed his on top of the bleeding puncture, pressing against it with all his weight. "Cathal," Eoin said again, more successful though his voice was still quiet. "Cathal, Cathal, Cathal, stop."

"You idiot." Cathal snapped hoarsely, his throat tightening with the promise of  tears that he refused to shed. He would not lose Eoin, he could not. He had already lost so many, he could not return without Eoin, he could not he did not know how to live without Eoin, they had been friends too long and his presence was too much of a constant that he could not imagine a life where he was without Eoin. "You idiot, of course I am not going to stop. I am not going to lose you, Eoin, I swear to the gods."

Eoin opened his mouth to speak but he coughed instead, his body shaking with the force. When it had passed, he turned and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. He looked back to Cathal, his face pinched with pain; a trail of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. "Yes, yes, you are," he said, his voice thick with - with - Cathal swallowed, pressed harder against the wound. He would not think of what made Eoin's voice so muffled, so drowsy. He was not going to lose Eoin, he was not. He could not, he was all Cathal had left.

"No." Cathal argued. "No, I am not. For the love of the gods, Eoin. We are going to go home and we are going to end this war."

Eoin shook his head, the action slow and sluggish. Cathal's chest was damp with blood, his tunic clinging to his chest, but he knew it could never rival the state of Eoin's; what had once been a light blue was now a horrible red-purple from the midriff upward. On both sides, his tunic was soaked through with blood, horrible and sticky and too warm, too much. He could not lose Eoin, he could not, they were going to go home. He and the lost boy Eoin, the sole heir to a throne, the boy who had come to his chambers after his father died and cried until he was too tired and then they sat together. His best friend, his only friend, he was going home with him. He would not leave him, he would not lose him.

"You are going home. You are going to end this war, Cathal. Not me," Eoin mumbled, his eyes too bright and his face too pale but the expression that came onto his face was one Cathal had seen before. Not often, it had only came about when Cathal had buried his mother and held his sister to his chest, only looking at Eoin. It was an expression of pride and adoration. Cathal could not hold back the sob, a broken and strangled noise.

"No, no, no," he chanted. "No, I cannot do it without you. I cannot do it without you, Eoin, please do not make me do it without you."

Eoin's lips turned upward in a drowsy smile, blood covering his chin now in an awful, gruesome beard. He reached up, his fingers trailing across Cathal's cheek. They would have left streaks of blood in their wake but Cathal could not care, he leant into the touch. "Thank you for coming with me," Eoin told him. He said something else but it was lost in a gurgle of blood. Eoin's hands clenched around Cathal's hose, leaving bloody smudges. His nails dug into Cathal's legs, painfully until the point where Cathal thought they would draw blood. Then, Eoin slowly relaxed until he was slack, his full weight suddenly against Cathal's chest.

"Eoin." Cathal said anxiously. Eoin did not respond. Cathal shook him lightly. "Eoin?" he repeated only to receive no answer again. Tears blurred his vision and began their trek down his face, hot and thick. "No, no, no, Eoin, please. Please."

Eoin did not speak, he could not speak. He was gone. Cathal was alone, for one of the few times in his life since he had become friends with Eoin all of those years ago, two boys with too much energy and too much life, he was truly alone. He had no one, Eoin's presence such a fixture that he had rarely ever contemplated not having him. He truly did not know how to live without him, how to move or how to breathe; but it had been alright, it had not ever mattered because Eoin had never left. Until now, now he was gone and he would not come back. Cathal could not go home, the keep would be too empty without Eoin. Too full of memories, too hard.

But he had to. He had to go home. He had to tell Aibhilin that Eoin was dead. He had to prepare for the ritual and the burial. He had to live and breathe and find out how to do it on his own, although even now the thought caused a pain so wretched, so fierce, that Cathal thought it would kill him. For a moment, he hoped it would.

It did not.

Cathal shuffled out from underneath Eoin and crouched once more, gathering his friend in his arms. Another horrible, broken noise was wrenched out of Cathal, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of his being. He pressed his lips together tightly to prevent any more sound, though it did not quiet the roar of his blood or the almighty thunder of his heart. Steeling himself - as much as he could, with his best friend's lifeless body in his arms and his blood coating his front - Cathal marched forward, in the direction he knew a small village to be.

He would get a horse there and ride like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels to the capital. He would tell Aibhilin and he would bury Eoin. Then he would fight. Someone had to win the war after all. Cathal just wished it did not have to be him; that Eoin did not have to be the martyr that drove them to victory.

Cathal sighed. He felt so terribly tired.


End file.
